


Nothing Improper

by Bunnywest



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Comfort, M/M, My poor babies, Stiles Needs a Hug, Touch-Starved Peter Hale, Touch-Starved Stiles Stilinski
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 18:12:30
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,429
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14857718
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Bunnywest/pseuds/Bunnywest
Summary: “How long since someone touched you, sweet boy?” Peter asks, his voice barely a breath in Stiles’ ear. “Days? Weeks? Months?” Stiles nods imperceptibly at that last one.“After…after everything, after Allison,” is all Stiles manages to get out.





	Nothing Improper

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Maladicta](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Maladicta/gifts).



> This is for missmaladicta, who wanted post-nogitsune touch starved Stiles.  
> I hope you like it. Also, I saw that 500 word guideline, and waved frantically at it as it went whizzing by! Sorrynotsorry.

 

He doesn’t think the Pack even realize they’re doing it. He tries to tell himself he’s imagining it, that it’s coincidence. But after Scott walks away one day, leaving Stiles standing there with his arms held open, he has to admit it.

Nobody will touch him. They skirt around him like he’s coated in wolfsbane, and after the Nogitsune, he can’t blame them. They watched something wearing his face, using his body, rip through them and nearly destroy them. If it hadn’t been for Peter helping them, he knows it could have been so much worse.

He has his Dad of course, who will grab him by the scruff of the neck or pull him into a rough hug now and then, but that’s all. Gone are the big squishy hugs Alison used to give him. He misses them, misses _her,_ more than he can say. And the bro hugs with Scott are a thing of the past, even the awkward one armed affairs. Scott keeps his distance, and Stiles understands it, sure, but it doesn’t mean he _likes_ it.  Even Derek’s stopped picking him up and threatening him, stopped smacking the back of his head.

He’s a pariah. Stiles figures it’s just the price he has to pay, and he’s dealing with it. Except…except he isn’t. Not really. His skin feels too tight, stretched out. He’s jittery and fidgety in a way that has nothing to do with his ADHD. He longs for the whisper of skin on skin, the feeling of strong arms encircling him, anything so he doesn’t feel so damn _alone_. He doesn’t say anything of course, that would just be awkward. Instead he takes to wrapping his arms tightly around himself, in an effort to fool his body into thinking that he’s getting some kind of contact.

It’s not working.

* * *

 

 

He stands in the corner of the room, leaning against the wall, arms crossed, as he listens to Scott and Derek argue again. He could tell them the best way to deal with the current threat, but he knows they won’t listen, not yet. It will take another round of shouting before they’re ready to hear any input from the rest of the pack. He goes back to thinking about whether it would be too pathetic if he bought himself a stuffed toy to hold at night. Probably, he thinks, but what does it matter?

He’s drawn from his thoughts by a voice in his ear. “You look tense, Stiles.” He turns to find Peter standing next to him, slightly closer than he’s comfortable with. A hand lands on the back of his neck, and Stiles can’t help the shiver that runs through him at the warmth of human contact. Peter nods as if confirming something before he speaks again. “You too,” he murmurs to himself, and starts to move his hand, rubbing gently at the base of Stiles’ neck.

“What are you doing?” Stiles can’t bring himself to shake off the touch, even given its source. He finds himself relaxing against his will. Peter wraps his other hand round Stiles’ hip and draws him closer, and Stiles doesn’t resist.

“How long since someone touched you, sweet boy?” Peter asks, his voice barely a breath in Stiles’ ear. “Days? Weeks? Months?” Stiles nods imperceptibly at that last one.

“After…after everything, after Allison,” is all Stiles manages to get out.

Peter’s hand is still massaging his neck, and he closes his eyes without meaning to. “Poor boy, you need someone’s hands on you. Come back to my place, and let me help you,” Peter offers. Stiles’ eyes snap open at that, and he stiffens in Peter’s grip. Peter sees the expression on his face and huffs impatiently. “Not like that. God, you young people are obsessed with sex.”

Stiles’ shoulders lose some of their tension. ”What, then?” he asks in an undertone.

“Nothing improper, I promise. I just assumed you wouldn’t want an audience,” he says, nodding at the rest of the pack, and yeah. Peter has a point.

They slip out the door together and nobody notices them go.

 

* * *

 

 

The first time, all that happens is that Stiles lays on Peter’s couch with his head in his lap, breathing deeply as Peter runs his fingers through Stiles’ short hair and bitches about the amount of product in it. Stiles doesn’t reply, too busy marinating in the endorphins released by some honest to god physical contact.

He falls asleep to the feel of Peter’s fingers tracing his jawline, and wakes up hours later, feeling better than he has in weeks, despite the crick in his neck from sleeping at an odd angle. When he complains about it, Peter just smirks, and says “If you’re going to fall asleep when we do this, we’ll lie on the bed next time.” That pulls Stiles up short. He thought this was a one time thing. His confusion must be evident on his face, because Peter says, “Stiles, you need this. You’re touch starved, sweetheart.”

Stiles stands there with his mouth open, searching for something to say that isn’t  just, _Yes please_. In the end he settles for “Why?”

“Because I know what it’s like. Six years of manhandling, like I was a mannequin, no care behind any of it. And now, my own nephew won’t even touch me, like he’s afraid he’ll come away bearing the dirt of my grave.” Peter’s tone is impassive, but Stiles sees the hurt in his eyes, recognizes it from when he looks in the mirror.

“Wow. That sucks,” he says quietly.

“Quite,” Peter says briskly and Stiles knows when to leave a subject alone.

He mumbles his thanks, and as he leaves Peter says, “Just come over when you need someone, Stiles.”

The offer comforts him more than he’d like to admit.

 

* * *

 

 

It becomes a regular thing. At first Stiles only heads over when it gets too much to bear, but soon he finds himself at Peter’s three, four days a week. Peter never turns him away. If Stiles notices the way Peter scents him while they lay wrapped around each other on the bed, he doesn’t mention it. He knows this goes both ways.

He likes Peter, more than he thought he would. Underneath the ruthless exterior, he finds an equally ruthless interior. Peter, Stiles decides, is the type that would burn the world to protect the people he cares about. He thinks about his dad, and he understands where Peter’s coming from, at least a little.

It gets to the stage where Peter feeds him when he’s there, because it’s getting late when Stiles wakes from his now regular naps curled against Peter’s chest. Stiles finds that when he sleeps next to Peter, the nightmares don’t haunt him. And he can’t help but note that as the weeks pass, the tightness in Peter’s expression recedes a little as well. He laughs loudly one day, and Stiles is shocked to realize he's never heard Peter laugh before.

That knowledge shouldn't affect him as much as it does. It's almost like he cares.

 

* * *

 

 

Scott’s called a pack meeting, and Stiles and Peter reluctantly drag themselves along. “Are you sure I can’t injure him if he says something idiotic?” Peter whines.

“No. You bit him, so you have to put up with him,” Stiles tells him firmly, pulling Peter by the hand as they walk in the door.

“Spoilsport,” huffs Peter, but he’s smiling. Stiles leans in and nudges him with his shoulder in a familiar gesture.

When Stiles looks up, he sees every eye in the room trained on them. More specifically, on their joined hands. It’s Scott who speaks first. “What the hell, Stiles? Since when are you and Peter dating?”

Stiles looks at Peter, who shrugs, a small smile playing around his lips. Stiles can read him perfectly, knows Peter’s saying _its up to you._

He grips Peter’s hand a little tighter. “Actually, we’re not. But now that you mention it, maybe we should be.”  He looks over at Peter, sees the amused expression on his face, and can’t help but lean in. Peter closes the distance between them and kisses him chastely, and when he pulls away Peter says, “That sound like an excellent plan.”

Their next kiss is absolutely filthy, and Scott squawks and flails and tells them to quit it, but Stiles ignores him, too caught up in the heat and pressure of Peter’s mouth against his, and the way his hands have wound themselves into Peter’s hair.

Besides, it’s just a kiss.

Nothing improper.

 

 


End file.
